Not the least distressing of the losses which we have to mourn is the
damage that has been done to the beauty of our English landscapes and
the destruction of many scenes of sylvan loveliness. The population of
our large towns continues to increase owing to the insensate folly
that causes the rural exodus. People imagine that the streets of towns
are paved with gold, and forsake the green fields for a crowded slum,
and after many vicissitudes and much hardship wish themselves back
again in their once despised village home. I was lecturing to a crowd
of East End Londoners at Toynbee Hall on village life in ancient and
modern times, and showed them views of the old village street, the
cottages, manor-houses, water-mills, and all the charms of rural
England, and after the lecture I talked with many of the men who
remembered their country homes which they had left in the days of
their youth, and they all wished to go back there again, if only they
could find work and had not lost the power of doing it. But the rural
exodus continues. Towns increase rapidly, and cottages have to be
found for these teeming multitudes. Many a rural glade and stretch of
woodland have to be sacrificed, and soon streets are formed and rows
of unsightly cottages spring up like magic, with walls terribly thin,
that can scarcely stop the keenness of the wintry blasts, so thin that
each neighbour can hear your conversation, and if a man has a few
words with his wife all the inhabitants of the row can hear him.

Garden cities have arisen as a remedy for this evil, carefully planned
dwelling-places wherein some thought is given to beauty and
picturesque surroundings, to plots for gardens, and to the comfort of
the fortunate citizens. But some garden cities are garden only in
name. Cheap villas surrounded by unsightly fields that have been